Circles
Raindrops fall, the infinite eyes of an unknown god,
to the callous ground. Only the worms,
cylindrical engines made to plow the earth’s heart,
understand:
The writhing commonwealth, no longer veiled
beneath the mysterious folds of silt and gravel,
throws itself upon a cracked, grey cul-de-sac,
alter to their god. They await curved ritual blades,
and are not disappointed. Magpies, sparrows, ravens
spiral from the heavens, arriving neither early nor late.
The peacock struts, consumes the eaters of the earth
and turns. Pearls of moisture fleck his bespectacled plumage,
the all-seeing eyes of Rousseau and Jefferson.
The worms know they will one day collect their lost brothers,
cornerstones of the collective consciousness.
The birds know one half the circle only.
We are the second pi, the lower concavity
on which they cannot perch, cannot feast.
We do not feed the birds. They merely consume us.
The earth shall consume them and we shall feed upon the earth.
We feed ourselves. We feed the circle, our circle.
Life, Time, is cyclic, circular.
Oh, I'm still not sure that I'm finished with this poem, so keep the peepers open for another draft/version.
2 comments:
I've seen that. I'm such a stud. :)
Much luv, homie!
Alex... you suck. Actually that was one of the biggest fibs I think I've told in quite some time. At any rate, the poem is new to me and it was amazing. I shall spare all other compliments and geeky 'poet-speak,' only because I'm too lazy to comment further and I have other things I must do. But never fear, I shall be back. You can be sure of that, my friend.
-Chelzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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